Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband (27 page)

Tuesday 26 August

Sally put my PR problems (never thought I'd have such
a problem) into perspective by telling me that things at
work were reaching crisis point. It looked as though
they might just have to roll up everything and get out.
Nearly every asset had been compromised (I think that
is the technical term), and the future was looking very
very bleak for the whole section.

'Does this mean your job is on the line?' I asked.

'Yes. And before you start pleading with me to chuck
it in, I'm not going to.'

I am surrounded by strong women. Or at least women
who are stronger than me.

Wednesday 27 August

Laura phoned to tell me three things. First, that she
hadn't forgiven me for not keeping her 'in loop'
regarding the
Sunday Advertiser
piece. However, she
sounded somewhat better-tempered about it. I decided
not to apologise, because I already had. The second
piece of news was that having sent out preview DVDs 'we
are getting great feedback' from the TV reviewers.
Nothing specific, but they all seemed to like it, and it
would certainly get a lot of review coverage, which is
both great and terrifying. And, more exciting still, she's
booked the Harpo Club for a launch party next Friday.
Excellent! Now I can truly call myself a fully fledged
member of the tellystocracy.

An actual party. I can't remember the last time I went
to one of those, probably some dull management-consultancy
affair. I expect the one at the Harpo will be
very different. Better-looking people, for starters. And a
lot more cocaine.

Friday 29 August

Today was the big interview day, which was spent in a
suite in one of those trendy little boutique hotels in a
part of London you never knew existed until you found
yourself having to give interviews in a suite in a trendy
little boutique hotel. Laura was fantastically efficient,
and had lined up no less than twenty-three people to
interview me. I was astonished – an emotion I am
experiencing more often these days.

Normally I quite like the sound of my voice, but by
the end of the day I hated it. Of course, I don't want to
sound blasé, but there's nothing more tedious than
repeatedly answering the same questions. How did you
become a househusband? Where did you get the idea
for the programme? What was it like to make? Why are
your children not on the Holden Childcare
Programme? (They had clearly listened to my interview
with Stocks, which I see has become a bit of a hit on the
Web.) Will you go back and visit the families you helped
on the show? (Er . . . no, but I said yes. Nobody is to
know that we aren't planning to.)

What irked me was that Laura sat through all the
interviews. I told her it really wasn't necessary, and that
I was perfectly capable of answering questions all by
myself. Laura said that was the problem. Now I know
why celebrities say they feel like caged animals. You're
there to perform, and although your cage is very
opulent there's no doubt that if you don't perform just
how the zoo-keeper and the public want, then you're
thrown back into the wild. Naïvely, I thought that
spending a whole day in a suite talking about myself to
pretty female feature writers would be almost the stuff
of a wank fantasy, but it wasn't. At one point, when the
umpteenth journalist asked me how I had become a
househusband, I felt like shouting, 'Read the fucking
press release you thick twat!' and then storming out. It's
amazing how quickly you become a prima donna.

What also annoyed me was that Laura forbade me to
have anything to drink, by which I mean booze.

'Why not?' I asked.

'Because you'll only get pissed and start insulting
everybody.'

She was perfectly charming about it, but I could tell
that she was as serious as a post-coital female Black
Widow.

'You just don't trust me at all, do you?'

'Not one little bit.'

This brought out the rebel in me, and I vowed that I
would help myself to something in the minibar when
she went to the loo. Eventually, at some point in the mid
afternoon, she disappeared, and I seized my chance. I
dashed over to the fridge and opened it up, wondering
what absurdly overpriced little something was going to
end up down my neck. A little bottle of whisky? A quick
cheeky beer? Perhaps even one of those cans of ready-mixed
gin and tonic? I felt like a complete alkie.

I couldn't believe it. I was in the one hotel suite in the
whole of London that couldn't provide an alcoholic
drink. What was this, some kind of Mormon boutique
hotel? And then it occurred to me – Laura must have
taken it. She is as sly as she is beautiful. I was so put out,
I challenged her about it.

'Did you take all the drinks out the minibar?'

'Yes.'

'OK.'

And that was that.

When the interviews were over, I went down to the
nearest pub and necked two pints of bitter before you
could say 'positioning'.

Sunday 31 August

This afternoon, Sally and I had a great time working out
who should come to the launch party at the Harpo.
Naturally, both sets of parents, various siblings, and old
muckers such as Nigel and Clare, etc. By the end of it we
had thirty names, and it was pretty tough keeping it that
short.

'Will you be inviting the families in the show?' Sally
asked.

'Good idea,' I said. 'After all, they were the ones who
put in the real work.'

Monday 1 September

Laura's first words were:

'You've got to be kidding.'

Her second set of words were:

'Are you mad?'

And her third:

'We don't want them anywhere near.'

'But they're the ones who really made the
programme,' I said. 'They're the ones who gave up their
time, took their children out of school, made big
sacrifices. The least we can do is ask them to have a
drink. Where's the harm in that?'

'One. Launch parties are not for the subjects of the
show. They are for the people who are going to write
about it and publicise it. If the journalists actually found
out the truth about how these programmes were made,
then we'd be sunk before we even set sail. We can't have
some of those people actually talking to journalists!
Have you no idea?'

'None whatsoever,' I said wearily. 'Anyway, was there
a second reason? You began by saying "one".'

'Yes. The sort of people featured in the show would
massively bring down the tone of the party. They're the
cooee brigade, the type of people who've won a trip for
two to the West End to meet the stars of some crap
musical. Betty and Derek from Blackpool. No thanks.'

Blimey, I thought. Laura was even more of a snob
than me. That took some doing.

'Don't you think that's just a little unfair?'

'No. They were never promised a party, and besides,
these people's real thrill is appearing on TV. That's
reward enough for them.'

It was clear that I wasn't going to win this one. So the
next exchange came as no surprise.

'I'd like to email you a list of some people I want to
invite. Don't worry, they're friends and family, not the
cooee brigade.'

'OK. How many?'

'I've got thirty.'

'Thirty?'

'Why, is that too many?'

'WAY too many. Can you get it down to six?'

'SIX? But that's nothing.'

'I'm sorry, Sam, but there's not much room for
friends. You could do eight, at a pinch. Sorry, but that's
the way it is.'

'Gee, thanks a bunch.'

'There's nothing stopping you having your own
party.'

The logic of that was perfectly unassailable, but it
wasn't really the point. And besides, holding parties in
clubs in London is not cheap.

'Right,' I said. 'I'll get it down to eight.'

'Great,' she said. 'And remember your wife counts as
one of those eight, OK?'

Somehow that didn't surprise me. I can't believe I was
so easily charmed by her at the Clarendon. I can see why
she's a good PR now. In a way, I should count myself
lucky that I have such a tough cookie on my side. I hope
she doesn't rub up journalists in the same way. I doubt
it – I expect she's in full seductress mode for them. It's
only people like me, the poor old fool who came up
with the idea for the programme, and who actually stars
in the bloody thing, who get treated like crap.

Wednesday 3 September

I saw Emily – where else? – in the supermarket. Today
our accidental meeting-place was near the household-cleaning
products, glamorously enough. We did the
normal hellos, and then Emily said, 'I expect I won't be
seeing much of you soon.'

'Why's that? Are you moving?'

'No. But soon you are going to be so rich and famous
you won't bother coming to the supermarket, you'll
have slaves to do it for you.'

'Too right,' I said. 'And a punkah-wallah to cool me
down in the summer.'

'What's that?'

'One of those chaps out in the Raj who used to pull a
rope all day attached to a sail-like fan that kept the
room cool.'

'I could do with one of those,' she said. 'It's far too
hot at the moment.'

I didn't know what else to say. This is always a
problem when you know someone is in love with you
(the expert speaks) because the only thing on your
mind is the great unspoken.

'Kate tells me that you're having some kind of party
on Friday up in London.'

Oh shit, I thought, somebody is angling for an
invitation. I've invited Kate and her husband, because
they are new best friends, and I want to cement our
friendship.

'That's right,' I said.

Never apologise, never explain, I said to myself.

'I'm sorry not to invite you, but the numbers are
limited,' I told Emily.

'Honestly, I wasn't expecting to be invited,' she
replied. 'I doubt Sally would want me there.'

I smiled weakly.

'Probably not.'

We said perfunctory goodbyes. As I trolleyed away, I
reflected that Emily had changed radically. Her spark
had died, fizzled out in a muddy pool. She seemed
depressed, gloomy. The flirtation had gone, and there
was an edge of chippy bitterness to her. If I'm being
harsh, I'd say all this was her own doing, all down to her
giving into her sexual incontinence. But then isn't the
definition of incontinence suggestive of a lack of
control? How can you be blamed for something you
can't control? What makes Emily so special that she
feels she can cheat on her husband, and get other
women's husbands to cheat on their wives?

I'm worried that Emily is going to turn sour, like
forgotten milk in the back of the fridge. If I could, I
would help her, but I know I'm part of the problem,
and I also know that sympathy friendships always end
badly. I shall just have to keep an eye on her, and be as
nice as possible, from a distance mind you.

Thursday 4 September

Halet said that she was very excited about my
programme.

'I've told all my friends to tune in tomorrow night,'
she said.

'Excellent,' I said. 'The more viewers the merrier. I
expect you will find it a bit silly though.'

Halet flicked that aside.

'It's TV, isn't it? It's all silly.'

Why hadn't I known that?

I'm getting really nervous about tomorrow night now.
I've decided that I'm not going to drink, as I'll only get
mullered and make a fool of myself. Laura tells me that
all the newspaper and magazine TV editors will be
there, and it will be quite a bash. When I told her that I
was intending to stay dry for the night, she sounded as
pleased as I do when Daisy tells me that she has been to
the loo all by herself.

Peter asked me a funny question during teatime.

'Daddy? Are you going to be famous?'

'A little bit, yes.'

'Cool!'

'Well, I don't know if it's cool.'

'It's really cool. Josh's mummy told Josh that she had
seen you on the TV! Are you going to be on the TV
again?'

Josh's mummy must have seen one of the trailers. I
hadn't seen one yet. Oh God, I thought, it's really
happening.

'I will be, yes.'

'Cool! And will you be really rich?'

'Erm, no. I shall have a bit more money, yes.'

Now it was Daisy's turn to pipe up.

'I like money,' she said.

I had to laugh.

'Why do you like money?' I asked her.

'Because it is shiny,' she said.

'I like money too!' Peter announced.

'And why do you like it?'

'Because money buys lots of toys,' said Peter.

'That's right, but you have to have lots of money to
buy lots of toys.'

'I will have lots of money one day. Enough to fill the
whole world, and I will buy all the toys in world.'

'And where are you going to get all the money from?'

'From being famous and being on TV like you.'

The sad thing is that I pretty much thought like that
too a few months ago.

Saturday 6 September

6 p.m. Back home

Still hung-over, but I don't care, because I'm on a high.
The party went well, the reviews in this morning's
papers are mostly excellent, and the initial viewing
figures are looking really positive. Perhaps all that PR
bollocks was worth it after all, although I'm pretty sure
that the whole success of
WonderHubby
is down to me.
After all, it was my idea, and what's the point of having
a trumpet if you can't blow it?

The one thing I found strange about the party was
that even though it was notionally in my honour, I
barely knew anybody there. It rather seemed to be an
excuse for journalists to get drunk at someone else's
expense, which is fair enough I suppose. Most of those
who had interviewed me came along, but they showed
more interest in talking to each other. Perhaps I had
bored them. Anyway, it didn't matter, because Sally and
I had a great time talking to Kate and Nigel and Clare,
etc., which Laura moaned about until I told her that I
had tried talking to the hacks, but they weren't
interested.

However, I did make a short speech, which went
down well, as most people appeared to be listening. Just
as one would expect, I thanked everybody who needed
to be thanked, and then I made a great point of
thanking the poor buggers who had appeared in the
programme, and expressed regret that they couldn't
attend. That earned a somewhat muted clap.

At one point, Dom and Dave collared me. There was
a lot of 'dig' and backslapping and clumsy high fives,
and then the invitation to have some 'yayo'.

'I think it's about time, now that you're a telly star,
that you enjoyed all the trappings of your new status,'
said Dom.

'Dig,' said Dave, who was sniffing as though he had a
bad cold.

'I'm, er, not sure . . .'

'C'mon mate! Just a celebratory line!'

Drugs. I've always had an ambivalent attitude towards
them. Of course, like 99 per cent of people in their
thirties, I've tried them, but nothing serious. All just felt
a bit pointless, really.

'That's ever so kind of you,' I said to Dom. 'But I'll
leave it, thanks.'

'Sure? This is excellent Bolivian, you should really try
it.'

'Bolivian, eh? This isn't just normal cocaine, this is
Bolivian cocaine,' I said, imitating that woman's sultry
voice in the well-known supermarket ad. 'You'll be
saying that it's Fairtrade next.'

Dom laughed.

'I doubt it, but I do know that it's organic.'

'You're joking!'

'Not at all. My man told me it was.'

'And you believed him?'

'Of course. I trust my drug dealer implicitly!'

With that, Dom and Dave disappeared to powder
their noses. I was slightly jealous because it seemed like
fun, but I was paranoid enough not to be tempted, and
besides, one of the journalists might have seen me. And
what about Laura? If she didn't like me drinking, what
would she say to WONDERHUBBY IN COCAINE
SHAME all over the tabloids? Quite a lot, I would
imagine.

As the party dwindled at around ten o'clock, Laura
came up to me.

'A few of us are going on to Cooper's,' she said. 'Do
you and Sally fancy joining us?'

My reply was instantaneous.

'No thanks,' I said. 'I've got a table for me and my
friends. Sorry, if I'd known . . .'

I didn't have a table. I just couldn't face hanging out
with media people any more. I wanted to be with my
wife and my friends. As it was we did well, and although
it was probably the worst restaurant in the whole of
Soho, the Greasy Kukri, or whatever it was called, did us
proud. I must have drunk every variety of sub-continental
lager they had, and even Sally was keeping
up.

'To WonderHubby!' said Nigel at one point, and I
responded by toasting them. It seems a bit cheesy and
sentimental now, but at the time it felt just right. It was
good to know that I would always have these people
around, as the Doms and Daves and Emmas and Lauras
will no doubt flitter off as soon as a more nectar-laden
flower blossoms into view.

We caught the last train home, and I just had time to
buy every first edition of the newspapers in order to
read the reviews. Sally and I drunkenly spread them out
over our table, and read them aloud to each other. Our
fellow passengers must have thought we were partly
insane, but I didn't care.

In the main, they were pretty good. The best was in
the
Daily Advertiser
, which read:

WonderHubby
is a bizarre mixture of management
programme and childcare, and more bizarrely still, it does the
trick. It works not only as a system for raising your children –
the results appear to be impressive – but also as a TV
programme. The presenter and inventor of the eponymous
system is Sam Holden, a former management consultant who
decided to apply the principles of his old job to raising his
children. He makes an engaging host, and although he
sometimes bedazzles the viewer with his vocabulary, he radiates
much warmth and decency, all too rare qualities on our screens
these days. I predict that this series is going to go a long way,
and I wouldn't be surprised to see Sam Holden becoming the
new childcare guru of our times. Move over Gina!

All I could to say to that was, 'Wow!'

All Sally could say was, 'Please make sure your head
doesn't get too big.' But I could tell she was proud, and
she gave me a massive kiss.

The more downmarket
Herald
loved it as well.

WonderHubby
is the best reality TV to hit our screens since
Gay Up Your Kitchen.
Host Sam Holden, the inventor of a
whacky new childcare system which seems to involve lots of long
words, shows families how to look after their kids by using the
techniques of business folk. Judging by last night's show, it
really seems to work! He stops short of putting the kids in
pinstripe suits, but there is method in his crazy bizspeak! Look
out for this next week, it's a must!

And even the normally rather snooty
Clarion
gave it
the thumbs up:

There are many of us who are sick of reality TV, childcare TV,
and 'Business is Sexy' TV, and it took a brave commissioning
editor to go ahead and order six episodes of WonderHubby,
which mixes all three. Nevertheless, this combination of stale
ingredients produces a highly digestible dish, which blends
much good sense, situational humour and surprisingly useful
advice. The presenter, Sam Holden, does a good job in holding
it all together, and this reviewer would not be surprised if
WonderHubby
has a great future.

The only mixed review was from the
Gleaner
:

It's hard to think of a bigger mess of formats, and although
WonderHubby
has its comic moments, they are presented at
the expense of the participants, who are mainly from low-income
families. The supposed childcare system is the
brainchild of the show's host, Sam Holden, a former
management consultant, who seems to think that by chanting
bullshit business mantras at the harassed families, their
children will somehow behave better. I wasn't convinced it
worked, and I suspect WonderHubby is more a triumph of
editing. I'd be interested to see what the families really thought
off camera, and would welcome an update in a year's time, to
see if the Holden Childcare Programme really matched the hype.

Funnily enough, that one didn't get me down at all,
because I pretty much agreed with it. In fact, I was more
surprised that only one of the reviewers had seen
through it, but then maybe the rest chose not to, no
doubt not wanting to jeopardise their free evenings at
places like the Harpo.

As if to ensure that my feet stay rooted in the soil,
Peter and Daisy have been uncharacteristically foul
today. For some reason, they've just been whingeing at
the slightest thing, and my and Sally's patience – never
particularly long with hangovers – has been painfully
tested. Still, I can't complain about anything at the
moment. It's all feeling a little too good to be true.